Good Dog
by Osidiano
Summary: Written for the gxkinkmeme; "In episode 112, Cobra tells O'Brien that he should be a 'good dog' like his father was, and it has been driving me crazy lately. Help me get it out of my head with puppy play. I don't care which O'Brien it is."


**Good Dog**

Professor Cobra leaned back in the black leather desk chair that had been provided for him, rolling his seat away from the highly polished desk that came with his title. _Professor_. . . It was still new and would take some getting used to; quite the change from Staff Sergeant or Squad Leader. He clasped his hands in front of his face, fingers interlaced and pressed thoughtfully against his mouth and the underside of his prominent nose as his dark gaze flitted over to the large bay window that encompassed the far wall of his dimly lit room here in the faculty wing of the Osiris Blue dorm complexes. The shades were drawn to block out the last dying rays of daylight and any prying eyes from below, but some tenacious bit of light still crept in. Perhaps he should have cast them aside and enjoyed the view. The island was truly lovely in the evenings.

A low growl brought his wandering mind back to the present, to the room, to the heavy and ever present smell of leather and polish and unwashed bodies.

Slowly, he turned his head to regard the source of the sound. The reason why he had drawn the shades an hour ago was still here, still crouching on the floor behind and to the right of his desk. Still glaring up at him defiantly. _Practically begging to be beaten_ , he thought and had to resist the urge to smile. Ah, but no. This was different, so close but not _quite_ the same. This one was young and still in training, still learning the proper commands and responses. He was almost _too_ young for Cobra, but he reminded himself that the age they had written on the high school application was a blatant lie, and the boy before him had already graduated from a military academy in the States and was nearly a young man.

Blue eyes crawled over sweat-slicked skin, relishing the way the red glow of the setting sun seemed to highlight every curve and shadow every line on the boy's naked body. He drank in the smell of it, his hands gripping each other tighter as he fought the urge to stand and walk over. His jaw clenched. Those muscular arms and broad, quivering shoulders made him hard and ache for contact. Made him want to move within touching distance and lick a long wet line up the boy's back.

His survey stopped at the heavy collar that hung loosely about his captive's throat. It was partially obscured from the angle; he was looking down at the boy, the boy was all tense muscle and hunched shoulders, head down but eyes rolled up to meet his own. Though he could not see the metal ring attached to it, Cobra knew that it was there, centered in the leather with the dull brass clip connecting it to a worn-out leash. The other end of that leash was wrapped around the leg of the ornate king-sized bed behind him, its solid wooden headboard pressed flush to the wall and blue canopy drapes secured to the posts.

But Cobra's attention was focused strictly on the collar now, which did not quite fit the boy. His gaze narrowed to a somber glare of disapproval and, after a moment more of silence, moved his hands forward ever so slightly to free his mouth to speak:

"O'Brien."

The boy shifted at the sound of his name, his chiseled features twisted with anger and defiance, full lips parted slightly where he bared a white wall of teeth. His breathing slowed to a controlled pant, each inhalation pulled in forcefully as though his captor would take it from him otherwise. _Ah, he must have remembered the last time_ , Cobra thought absently, recalling the way the boy's throat had felt under his hands, supple and smooth and oddly vulnerable. And the way the boy's mouth worked in silent protest when he was too weak to even bite when kissed. But perhaps the best part of that last round of training had been the wild look when those oddly colored eyes went wide with oxygen deprivation . . .

Those eyes, such a stark and pale contrast against that dark skin. . . It was the eyes that drew him back each time, and each time he craved for a new expression to be displayed. Those eyes made him look like his father, but no matter how long the training went, Cobra could not seem to coax more than the ghost of the late O'Brien out of the boy. When Cobra put that old collar and leash on the late mercenary, there had never been any anger, any disgust, any fear. There was only understanding, and that hunger for what would come next.

But Austin O'Brien was not his father, and he did not understand this. Cobra tried to keep the two separated in his mind, tried to remember that this was Austin on his floor and not _his_ O'Brien. Unlike his father, the boy treated this training as something to be abhorred, a strange and unpleasant task his commander had ordered him to go through. And he kept lapsing into old habits, time and time again. Perhaps it was only a matter of time until he, too, learned to enjoy these activities, these quiet evenings shared together, the way that his father had once enjoyed them.

"O'Brien, heel." At first, Austin did not move. Cobra allowed himself the hint of a smile, the expression somewhat strained as he fought to contain it, as he repeated the command. "Heel."

The boy ducked his head back down, another low growl escaping him as he crawled slowly to the end of his leash. Obedient. Submissive. It made Cobra grin on the inside with a possessive pride. O'Brien was a strong, proud young man, and to see the early weeks of training demonstrated so effectively thrilled him in a way he had not felt in quite some time-he caught his internal monolog abruptly. Austin. _Austin_ was a strong, proud young man. O'Brien would not have needed to be told a second time. O'Brien would not have needed to be tied to the bed to keep him from getting underfoot. It had taken a great deal of effort to teach Austin even a few simple commands, to force him to crawl towards his master as he should. Cobra felt that familiar ache low in the pit of his stomach as his cock twitched with the need to be released from the restrictive boundaries of his pants. His tongue darted out over his thin lips hungrily. "I said, ' _heel_ ,' O'Brien."

This time the command was met by a muttered curse, but Austin continued to move forward. The loose collar pulled tight to his throat as he struggled against his restraints. Behind him, the bed inched forward slowly at an angle, the wooden legs scraping loudly against the floorboards. His breath came in labored and ragged where the collar began to choke him.

Cobra just smiled and continued to watch, his hand slipping down from his chin to his lap.


End file.
